Concede
by prouvaires
Summary: -he drowns in his dreams; an exquisite extreme, I know- ArthurMorgana


_He drowns in his dreams – an exquisite extreme, I know._

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the BBC TV show Merlin, or any of the characters therein.

**Rating: **T

**Words:** 3,231

**Song: **Beautiful Disaster by Kelly Clarkson

--

You're watching him practising from your window high up in the castle walls. He's sparring with one of his knights, the two men bashing away at each other with the heavy wooden staffs. Your long hair is blowing across your face as you gaze, but you're so intent on him that it's only a minor annoyance. You brush it away impatiently, and the red of your sleeve must catch his eye because his head jerks to face in your direction.

He has keen eyes (pretty eyes), but even so you're almost certain he can't see who you are. You raise your hand in greeting because of this, and he nods at you before he whirls to block a blow from his opponent. His grace amazes you as you watch him. He walks in beauty, you think. His golden hair flops over his strong, proud face and he moves with the sinewy grace of a wildcat as he jabs and lunges and parries.

"My lady?" the voice in the doorway startles you, and you spin around in surprise.

"Oh, Gwen," you say, relieved. You don't really want anyone to know how easily you become captivated by the young crown prince. But Gwen won't say a word. She never does.

She sets the flowers she's carrying on the bedside table, and you glide across the room (it's a skill you mastered young) to breathe in their heady scent.

"Thank you," you say as you toy with the white petals of one flower. "They're beautiful."

She smiles. She's like Merlin in how easily she is buoyed up by praise.

"I found them in the market. I thought they'd freshen the rooms up."

"Indeed," you agree, and move to stand behind the screen and undress. "The king requires my presence at his banquet tonight," you announce, and she moves quickly to unfasten the back of the red dress.

"And will the prince be attending?" Gwen asks quietly (but pointedly) from behind you. Your head jerks involuntarily, but you mask the movement by rubbing your cheek against your shoulder, as if you have an itch.

"I believe so," you reply remarkably indifferently. "I do hope Uther doesn't seat me next to him. How frightfully dull that would make the evening."

She makes a small noise, whether of amusement or agreement you cannot tell.

"The blue dress, please," you say firmly. "With the gold."

She nods and heads over to your wardrobe to find the dress you want. It's your favourite – men fall over themselves to declare their love for you when you wear it. As Gwen helps you into the dress, you're beginning to wonder if that's the reason you love – _admire _– Arthur so much. He's a member of the royal family, like yourself, and puts up almost as much of a pretence of acceptance and humility as you do.

But really, the reason you're falling for him (no, you just think he's a good prince, that's all) is because his beauty matches yours and he will never bend on his knees before you, begging you to love him. He's the strongest man you've ever met (both physically and mentally) and you think maybe you'd like to be around him forever.

Of course, you know that during the course of the evening he'll say something obnoxious and you'll get annoyed and eventually you'll both flounce off in different directions, muttering curses and flushing that unhappy shade of red.

Secretly, you're excited. He's never seen you in the blue-and-gold dress before, and you're going to be at your most breath-taking this evening. You're going to make him think of you what you think of him.

"I have to be perfect tonight," you say to Gwen, and she smiles her easy, pretty smile at you.

"Of course, my lady."

--

You think it's working. You enter a perfectly calculated twenty minutes late, sweeping through the double doors and into the crowd of people. Your eyes find him straight away, and he's staring at you. He realises the direction of your gaze and his eyes lazily run up and down your body, making you hot and cold at the same time, and then he turns his head with a little smirk and says something in an undertone to Merlin.

You give him this round.

It's a weird sort of game you two play. It's like sparring against him, only without the swords and the bruises and the sweat. It's small victories, like his flushed face when he catches you bathing unawares, and the slight crack in his voice when you know he can see down the front of your dress.

He takes victories too, of course. He's not the leader of the army for nothing. His wins come in the form of your red face when he catches you staring, your involuntary smiles when he says something obnoxious but endearing.

"My lady, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," Sir Derlean announces from beside you, offering you his arm. You smile your prettiest smile (he's too old for your brand of heartbreak) and take the proffered arm.

"Sir, my beauty pales next to your handsomeness," you reply flirtatiously. Uther's staring at you with a pleased smile – he likes you to flatter his knights, to make them fall in love with you. He thinks it gives him power over them and their loyalty. You are amused by his ignorance – it's Arthur they'd die for; not you, and definitely not the king.

But you smile and laugh and dance with the white-haired knight anyway, swirling round and round and almost eating the music as the minstrels put their all into making a beautiful soundtrack to your evening.

You're passed around from man to man, knight to knight, and at one point you find yourself in Merlin's arms. He grabs your waist a little awkwardly and you laugh, clutching his free hand in yours.

"Relax, Merlin," you tell him as he leads you into the dance. He half-smiles nervously, and you giggle. "How will you ever get Gwen's attention if you never ask her to dance, hmm?" you enquire, jokingly tracing the outline of his cheek. (he's almost as pretty as Arthur, and you think maybe he'd be easier to love – if it wasn't for Gwen).

He swallows, and releases you fumblingly. You beam at him and disappear into the crowd before he can use you as an excuse to avoid asking Gwen to dance. You can see clearly how they feel about each other, and sometimes you get impatient with their inability to do the same.

Suddenly you feel yourself falling, and the ale you've drunk makes the world spin just a little as you trip over the man's foot. You can see the floor flying up to meet you, and you're giggling like this is funny as strong hands grab you and save your dignity. You loop your arms around your saviour's neck (and you haven't had _that _much to drink).

"Thank you," you say as he sets you back on your feet.

"You should watch where you put your feet," a familiar voice rebukes you, and you groan as Arthur's face swims into focus. (The groan masks the little flutter of excitement deep inside you.)

"Leave me alone," you tell him stroppily, unhooking your arms and pushing him away. He laughs.

"What, the king's ward refuses to dance with the crown prince? Bad business," he says, and before you can formulate an argument he's got one hand on your waist and with the other has captured your fingers deftly.

"You want me to dance with you?" you ask in shock, and he laughs (and you're so close to him that you _feel _it all the way through his chest and into your body). You flush and his lips curve up into a smirk. You're forced to concede another round.

"The king likes us dancing," Arthur informs you, leaning over you and whispering in your ear conspiratorially, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"And why's that?" you ask, gathering all your courage and flirting right back at the arrogant prince, smiling your breath-stealing smile.

"He likes to show off what a strong, brother/sister relationship we have."

You snort unattractively, and he stares at you in surprise for a moment before throwing his head back and laughing long and loud. You're annoyed at first, but then his laughter touches something deep inside of you and you start laughing too.

You're still giggling softly by the time you take your places for the meal, and you're horrified (delighted) to find that Arthur is sitting next to you. You make an effort, and you know that he makes one too so you don't fight for the whole of the banquet. Uther's pleased, you can tell – but you care little for what he thinks. If he knew the way you thought of his precious son he'd probably throw you out.

Originally he had planned to marry you two, of course, but you know he's changed his mind. He feels there's something dirty about marrying his ward to his son – like marrying two of his own children. This makes you laugh when you think of it. Poor, foolish Uther. His fear of magic and the unknown will destroy him.

--

You score a point when his eyes follow you as you sweep from the hall at the end of the meal. You don't glance back, or he'll win instead. Once you're back in your rooms, Gwen helps you out of your heavy gown and into your nightdress. Her cheeks are prettily flushed and you remember, from a moment when you managed to tear your gaze away from Arthur, seeing her dancing with Merlin.

You send her home once you're in bed, not wanting to keep her up. You lean to blow the candle out, and with a sigh you rest your head back onto the pillows and fall asleep.

You wake screaming. You muffle your cries in the pillow until they stop, and your breathing gradually slows down, but not quickly enough. The door bursts open and a familiar man rushes in, dressed only in soft leather trousers.

"Morgana?!" he shouts, and the silver of his sword flashes in the moonlight. You press a hand over the rapid thudding of your heart.

"Arthur, I think it's about time you learned to knock," you tell him determinedly, and he hurries over to the bed, seating himself on it and leaning over you, his sword still clutched in his hand. "Put it away," you say tiredly, leaning back onto your pillows as his face looms over yours.

"What happened?" he asks anxiously, not letting his sword go.

"Just a bad dream," you explain, and roll over to face away from him so he can't see your face. "I get them a lot."

"What was it about?" he inquires, and there's something soft in his voice that you haven't heard very much before.

"Nothing, I just … I dreamed about a war. It scared me … so many people were dying."

You don't tell him you saw him dying. You know the future isn't set in stone, and this dreamvision seems weaker than previous ones. You assume this means it's more unlikely (but all your reasoning can't stop the tears coming).

"Hey, now," he says, finally letting his sword fall to the floor. He lifts the covers and slides in next to you. You turn over in surprise, and he pulls you to him. You press your face against his bare chest and you find yourself crying harder than you thought you were (you were always a born loser).

"I'm not counting tonight," he says once you've regained control, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile against your hair.

"Thank you," you say with a slight laugh and he raises a hand to caress your hair, still holding you against him.

"Go to sleep," he orders you. "I'm here to keep the bad dreams away."

--

It's not your bad dreams that wake you up – it's his. You wake up to find your head on his bare chest, your hand fisted above his heart, and he's tossing his head and moaning aloud.

"Arthur," you say, sitting up and shaking him. His arm tightens around your waist but he doesn't awaken, just mutters unintelligibly.

"Arthur!" you say louder, shaking him harder. His (pretty) eyes flash open and you cup his cheek gently. "It's okay," you say firmly. "It's okay, it's just a dream."

He passes a shaking hand over his face.

"I'm not counting tonight either," you inform him, and he laughs tiredly. "What did you see?"

He looks almost … embarrassed. Unusual for him. "I dreamt about … a creature. It didn't scare me overly, but it was huge and fanged and winged. It … it took you away. Stole you from me. And I couldn't get you back …"

He trails off as you press your lips against his cheek.

"It's okay. There's no monster here."

His arms pull you back down to lie against him, and his lips tangle in your hair.

"I know."

You take a deep breath, breathing in his sweet smell and his strength and his goodness.

Much later, when the sky is turning light and he thinks you're asleep he whispers against your scalp.

"I love you," he breathes, almost noiselessly, and your toes curl in delight and your heart flutters inside your chest. (You know you shouldn't, because this isn't your destiny – it never was.) He freezes as you raise your eyes to gaze into his.

"I love you too," you say back (sure, you'll admit it now), and he looks uncertain.

"Truly? Not just to score points?"

You lean into him to prove your point and press your lips against his and touch heaven. (Destiny's overrated.)

--

He carries your favour on his shield in his next challenge, and wins easily. You clap louder than anyone else, and he smiles the smile he saves just for you. Next to you, Gwen is smiling knowingly, and you can see Merlin doing the same across the arena. You don't care (you're in love).

He comes to you that night, and the night after, and the night after that. Uther still doesn't know, and in truth there isn't much to tell him. His son is getting nightmares so he shares your bed so you can keep each other safe at night? You don't think Uther will accept that readily. (So you keep quiet, deceive, lie.)

You don't remember where you crossed the line, but you've crossed it and suddenly you're not Arthur's friend or adoptive sister, you're his lover; and it's exciting because it's so secret and forbidden.

There comes a time when not even Arthur can keep the bad dreams away, and you realise you're seeing things you shouldn't. You realise you have magic, and it terrifies you.

But not as much as discovering you're pregnant terrifies you (because magic is something you can't help; but a baby … a baby with Arthur's fair hair and blue eyes and your full lips…)

You don't tell him. You don't tell anyone. You just run away into the night. You disappear, just like that. You think he'll get over it, even if you won't. You'll have his baby to remind you of him, and he'll have nothing of you but memories.

--

You return to Camelot a year later, maybe more. The druids remembered you and the kindness you and the father of your child showed to one of their own. They took you in and helped deliver you of your son.

You clatter into the courtyard on a pure white mare, the baby strapped against your breast. The druid that accompanied you disappeared into the woodland before anyone in Camelot saw him, and you're thankful he's safe. You dismount as the guards stare at you in amazement, your hands flying to check that the baby is safe.

"Morgana!" a man cries to your left, and you whirl, your green cape swirling, to see Merlin crossing the courtyard towards you at a run. He sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he says breathlessly, setting you down. "That was totally out of order, but … oh, gosh," he interrupts himself, noticing your son for the first time. "Is that …?"

You ignore him, because you can see the one you've been aching for coming down the steps from the castle (and you were only ever pretending you could live without him). You sprint across the courtyard, and you're in his arms and your name is on his lips before another second has passed.

"Morgana, Morgana," he whispers over and over into your hair, and his tears against your neck break your heart.

"I'm so sorry," you murmur, running your hand through his hair. "I had to."

"Why did you have to?" he demands as his father comes down the steps towards you both. "You could have told …" he breaks off as you lift your son into your arms.

"Here," you say, passing the baby over. He shapes his arms awkwardly, cradling the child like he's made of glass.

"Morgana, this – "

"Is your son," you interpose firmly. Around you, courtiers begin to whisper. Arthur looks terrified as he holds his child in his arms.

"You should have told me," he mutters as you both turn around to face Uther.

"And risk us both? You're the crown prince, Arthur, you have to be faultless," you murmur back.

"Well, I'll be a faultless father."

You groan at his stubbornness and try to take the child back.

"No," he says firmly, and marches towards his father.

"Arthur, please, this isn't – "

"Father, I need to tell you something," he announces, and pushes the baby into its grandfather's arms.

"This is my son. Mine and Morgana's."

Uther's face is thunderous as he turns towards you, and you take a deep breath, twining your fingers with Arthur's.

"I'm going to marry her, father," Arthur says calmly, his eyes never leaving his father's face. You can see a smile trying to break through Uther's grim exterior as he regards his grandson, but you know he'll get it under control.

"You'd better," he commands as he hands the child back, gazing after him longingly.

Arthur turns and, as he kisses you, you feel one future shatter into nothingness and another take its place. You're relieved because Gwen will be much better with Merlin, and you'll make a better queen to Camelot and Arthur than she would because you've been raised your whole life for it. You have a son already to be heir to the throne, and there is no doubt in your heart of Arthur. You would never choose another over him, and you are certain he would never choose another over you.

"I love you," you whisper to him that night after the hastily-thrown-together marriage ceremony. Uther plans to have a formal, ceremonial marriage later in the year, but for the sake of your newly named son James you had to be bound together without any further delay.

"As I love you," he replies, and as he kisses you everything falls into place.

(And it will all have been worth it, just for this.)

--


End file.
